The Hunger
by KERNEL32DOTDLL
Summary: (UPDATED AUTHOR NOTES 7/29/02) A FF5/Dragon Warrior 2 crossover with a bit of Starcraft thrown in.
1. Author Notes

***UPDATE*** 7-29-2002  
  
Well you know how it is. Life and whatnot gets in the way, explaining the lack of updates for the past two or whatever months. And you've gotta realize that chapter, chapter three YES ONLY THREE, was a jackass to write. I mean, I hate using that style and all but I saw no other way to get the point across. I almost ended it at 13k but managed to persevere over the course of two months to pump it up to 34k. My longest chapter yet, whoo.  
  
Also had difficulties deciding how Exdeath was going to get his body back, but its all good now. Don't worry, it won't be as retarded as you all think. At least I hope not.  
  
So anyway pls pls pls comment on the story pls kthxbye.  
  
*****  
  
Yes, it's going to contain spoilers. Definite Final Fantasy 5 and Dragon Warrior 2 spoilers. What can I say, that's the way things work. I've had this idea kicking around in my head for quite awhile now. I'm basing it off of the RPGe Final Fantasy 5 translation for the Super Nintendo, so names may not be exactly you are used to. I am basing it off of the english Dragon Warrior 2 cart of... 90, 91, I believe. I'll probably not get everything exactly correct, and I'm going to deviate from both of their storylines just a tiny bit. Hopefully, I hope it will make as much sense as the normal storylines do.  
  
Both Final Fantasy 5 and Dragon Warrior 2 are two of my favorite games. I mean, why else would I be trying to do a story about them? Both are extremely underrated games, though; yes, FF5 had a worthwhile story. And Dragon Warrior 2 was just a blast to play through. The lack of stories for these two games gets me right in the heart. If only I could rectify the situation... yeah right. I've seen exactly one fic on Dragon Warrior 2, and guess what.  
  
IT WAS GOOD.  
  
This story will be starring Exdeath as the lead. I'm going to admit; this isn't exactly how I saw Exdeath when I first went through the game. But it is TRUE that I saw him more than the..... ugh..... generic bad guy wanting to reduce all to nothingness just because he had nothing better to do. I hope this will bring some of you about to my way of thinking, THOUGH I CAN ONLY HOPE.  
  
grr  
  
Well, Squaresoft owns Final Fantasy 5 and all characters within, Enix owns Dragon Warrior 2 and all characters within, and Blizzard owns Starcraft and all units within. I don't think I own a single character in this fic, and you can only guess HOW THAT MAKES ME FEEL.  
  
grr  
  
Anyways, read if you are interested and comment if you are so inclined. I'd really like opinions on my style, though, and I EMPHASIZE THE REALLY, so please please please make your comments known. IN CASE YOU'RE WONDERING, I can take it. OH YEAH. I'm more than one comment than handle alone.  
  
WHAT WHAT WHAT  
  
Enjoy :) 


	2. Slow Burn

It burned.  
  
Every fiber of his being tingled. It was all about him, blanketing him in the same suffocating misery he had long grown used to. It pervaded his soul, inflicting itself upon him with such severity he would have surely choked should he have been capable of such an action. It engulfed him; truly, he was lost in the midst of its immeasurable expanse. Sight and sound existed not on this temporal plane between life and death. All he had left was his thoughts, and those came to him through a labor that was beyond the worst torture he had ever experienced. Sanity was quite out of the question; at least it would be, if not for one thought. The single concept, most often taken for granted, had entered his mind at the very end; sticking with him even in his death throes, making the pain a bit more bearable.  
  
He was free.  
  
The emptiness gnawed away at what remained of his soul; a slow, steady burn that would have surely drove him to tears during his days amongst the living. Yet he had grown accustomed to it, although in the past there had been that other presence to reinforce his will; to suffer the burning alongside him.  
  
In the past...  
  
It's to be expected that time had no meaning in the pitchless void. Planets could be born, trangress slowly along their allotted lifespans and fade from history as ignobly as anything; he would be none the wiser during the entire process. The long possession of the "presence", along with the ordeal in the Dimensional Cleft, had done quite a number on his mental falculties. His mind as well as his body had been shattered, leaving him in a state of undying diress.  
  
Freedom...  
  
Perhaps the few things one holds dear and close to their heart are beyond any manner of destruction. In any case, the shapeless being found himself suddenly with a rare moment of lucidity.  
  
He was not completely gone yet.  
  
Which was not to say that his situation was any better. He was technically "dead"; the reason for his lingering self awareness was beyond the grasp of his limited sanity. Every rule that he once lived and abided by had been thrown out of the cosmic window. In their place remained one thing, a concept that gnawed at the edge of every thought taken; a concept that he had been familiar with for far too long.  
  
Helplessness.  
  
And freedom...  
  
He couldn't blame them, he found himself thinking. And yet he wanted to blame them, the "presence", anybody but himself. At least in his choice of blame he was free to lay it on anybody he so chose; yet time after time again he kept coming back to himself. His own lack of willpower. He had some hundred years to wrest control of his body from the "presence"; every time the attempt was made he'd been soundly rejected, sent scurrying back into the depths of his sanity. The presence's willpower was insanely strong, too strong for him alone.  
  
No, he couldn't blame them.  
  
They were only doing what they thought was right.  
  
i"And in ignorance the downfall of every man is to be found."/i  
  
He agreed with them, though. They were doing what he found to be right as well. The merging of the two planets, the unleashing of the Galactic Rip, the century of warfare before they had ever come into the picture. All were uncalled for; all were needlessly bloody.  
  
"What, am I looking for penance or something."  
  
If he had been capable of scoffing he would have done so. The evil actions of long ago were in the past; unchangable, undoable. He had no idea how much time had passed since his destruction in the Dimensional Cleft. Perhaps they'd long forgotten about his evil, or perhaps only a single day had gone by. In any case he shortly discarded that train of thought. It wasn't like he was going to ever find out.  
  
"In the past..."  
  
Vague recollections of his previous sojourn in the timeless prison rose, unbidden, in his thoughts. During his previous stay he had the "presence" for company, with the "presence" firmly lodged in his mind. That was the first time his attempts to dislodge the entity had gotten anywhere. The four Devas of Dawn had done their jobs and removed him from the living, but the "presence" and the body still remained as one.  
  
"Bungling fools. Barely managed to eradicate me, even with my own help, then couldn't get it done correctly."  
  
He had to admit, though, that the spell they'd used to seal the deed was perhaps the most advanced of any mortal. And sealed he was; apparently, a good thirty years had gone by before he had escaped the featureless void that, even now, strove to devour his sanity.  
  
"If only I knew how it escaped..."  
  
It was most unlikely he would ever know the answer. The presence that had possessed him and controlled his body for over a century was beyond his comprehension. In fact, he doubted there existed a being whose comprehension it was not beyond.  
  
The emptiness was already building inside of him.  
  
He could remember nothing of his life before the "presence". The "presence" had mangled or skewed or flat out erased memories of his previous existence. Indeed, he found himself thankful only his memory was lost in the bout. Maintaining his sanity had been nearly more than he could handle.  
  
"All for its own purpose."  
  
Although his memory was, well, a distant memory, he was sure he'd never ecountered anything like the "presence" beforehand. Pure hatred, intense disatisfaction, a ravenous hungering; all summed the "presence" up quite nicely. It had proved quite impossible to follow the "presence's" thought processes; he was never sure whether he couldn't comprehend its motives, or whether it just had no motives at all. One thing, however, he was quite sure about.  
  
The "presence" was insane.  
  
And it had just about driven him insane along with it. He was sure, as sure as a formless spirit could be, that his sanity would have been forever lost if it had lingered a moment longer.  
  
"No, can't blame them... can't blame them..."  
  
The emptiness began to expand within him; he knew that it was only a matter of time before it consumed him again and all lucid thought would leave him. Resisting the urge to despair, he instead tried to put his fragmented, disjointed thoughts into a perspective that included time.  
  
"The beginning... of course... the beginning begins with it taking control of me... something about trees... something about meteors..."  
  
Meteors.  
  
The "presence" had been looking for a way off of the planet. He was fairly sure about that. Yet if he himself had the abilities to get the "presence" off the planet... that, he did not know.  
  
"Rage... so much rage... war... blood... domination... subjugation... none could stand against me..."  
  
He managed to recall that he was hated by many on the planet. His name was most often spoken in whispers or followed by profanities a plenty. It seemed that in its eagerness to escape the planetary confines, the "presence" had conquered many lands and made many enemies. Faded, garbled memories of a kingdom once ruled under his command were brought forth from the depths of his diseased mind, only to dissipate shortly thereafter. Yet nevertheless, they lasted long enough to allow him to recall the meteor technology; simple two way, planet-to-planet transit.  
  
Whether he himself or the "presence" came up with the technology, he could not know.  
  
He remembered the "presence" being excited one day. The day he was to step into the meteor and leave the planet behind forever. He was fully aware at the time, but as always powerless to stand against the "presence". He himself was not too thrilled with the prospect of leaving the planet, much less allowing the "presence" to have its way, but there was not a single thing he could do about it.  
  
Then the four Devas of Dawn came calling.  
  
"Can't remember much else after that... too busy fighting that entity... too busy giving those bunglers a chance to survive."  
  
Having previous issues with him, the four Devas somehow found themselves trapped in the meteor with him. It was a continuous battle during the planetary transit; physicality against his awesome might, and his mind against the awesome mind of the "presence". Four against one is not favorable odds for anybody or anything; yet, it was only through his constant mental warfare that the four Devas managed to overcome him just as the meteor hit ground zero.  
  
"And then they couldn't finish me off."  
  
Instead of killing him, the four Devas sealed him on the new planet and split the seal into four fragments. Each fragment was enchanted into a certain elemental crystal that was native to the planet. Apparently the Devas thought that was enough to keep him out of the picture for good; for after some more bungling and argument, they discovered how the meteors worked and return to their home planet.  
  
All but one, however.  
  
The fourth remained on the unamed planet as a "guardian" over his body, sealed far away beyond the reach of mortal man in Limbo. Yet he quickly became insignificant and faded from the picture; of course, until the end in the Dimensional Cleft, that is.  
  
It began to burn again.  
  
"Time passed... and I escaped... if only I knew... how I did it."  
  
Yet he didn't, and it was pointless to ponder on things impossibly beyond his grasp. The emptiness was beginning to overwhelm him; already he felt as if he was suffocating in a sea of helplessness. There was no rock to break the waves; no raft to save him from the stormy waters of the damned. Thought took more and more effort, and it would not be long until his soul became lost in the hopelessness of the void.  
  
"It wanted to return to that other place... must have came up with a plan during the... during my chaining... they followed me... seems it learned how to merge planets in the meantime..."  
  
Which only furthered his suspicions of insanity on the part of the "presence". Try as he might, and thinking had long since become very hard, he could not come up with a reason for the merging of the two planets. Apparently the "presence" had one, however, and it must have been good; for despite his best efforts, he was unable to prevent the cataclysmic event from taking place.  
  
"And then... and then the Dimensional Cleft..."  
  
The merging of the two planets had completely screwed up the surrounding solar systems; it was inevitable that a Galactic Rip be formed. A tear, or hole in the very fabric of time and space, laced with insane amounts of radiation; more than enough to kill a person. It was through this hole that the "presence" led him, deeper and deeper through the delicate interweavings of insanity itself.  
  
All the way to the core of the universe.  
  
A fitting place for the events that transpired there, he decided. For apparently the "presence"decided that his current body was not capable enough for whatever nefarious deeds it had planned. In an act of vile repugnance, he could do nothing to prevent his body from drawing from a pair of crystals he had earlier acquired, entering a state of metamorphasis and forever altering his own flesh.  
  
True horror was never made more apparent than at that moment.  
  
No matter how he struggled; no matter how he resisted, nothing he could do would prevent the process. He could only watch in horror as his body contorted itself into dimensions far beyond anything remotely seemly; before long, he was a tree-like serpent, disgusting in every sense of the word. Yet the "presence" was not yet satisfied and the metamorphasis continued. In was then, in the middle of the metamorphasis, that the mental blockade was dropped and the "presence's" intentions were finally made clear. It wanted to meld with the universe itself, an attempt in quenching its overwhelming thirst for knowledge.  
  
There was no more doubt in his diseased mind that the "presence" was quite entirely insane.  
  
Right then and there, he realized his chance of ever escaping the hold of the "presence" were exactly zero. His body was no longer his own. Already he could feel the tremendous pressure of the "presence" bearing down upon him, attempting to eject his mind from the mutated freak he'd become. There would be no more attempts made; he would have no more chances of reclaiming his own body, his own mind.  
  
His own soul.  
  
Near the end of the metamorphasis, those people showed up. The people had been hounding him for quite some time. Ever since his escape from Limbo, in one form or another, those people had been on his tail. He himself didn't care. In fact, he wished desperately that they, or anybody else, would be able to put an end to his life. But the "presence" was quite infutiated with them. Although they had not been able to kill him during past encounters, the "presence" hadn't been able to kill them either. It had taken every ounce of his willpower to weaken the potency of his own attacks in order to keep them alive, but the effort had been worth it.  
  
For they had followed him into the Dimensional Cleft with the intent of destroying him.  
  
He couldn't remember much of the battle that ensued; in fact, he hardly remembered any of it. The "presence" was intent on banishing him from the mutation that his body had become, and he was equally desperate in finding a way to stay connected to the shell. He never thought about the consequences should he become seperated from the body; it was natural instinct that drove him to fight the "presence". Although it was all he could do to stay connected. The "presence" pervaded an area of his mind, driving out his consciousness only to have it root itself in an area that the entity had since vacated. It was cat and mouse; back and forth between the two willpowers as they beat on his mutated body.  
  
And then the metamorphasis was complete.  
  
What emerged was a monstrosity beyond description. Its very birth destroyed the laws of physics, sending reality spiraling end over end into a chaotic downfall. The "presence" let up his assault momentarily. For the first time he knew of, he was sensing ecstasy oozing from the "presence"; ecstasy beyond any malice or hatred he had previously sensed. Ecstasy in the fact that all knowledge was within his fingertips.  
  
That was its mistake.  
  
The moment the "presence" relented its assault, he, in return, assaulted it with everything he had. A century of frustration, a century of helplessness, a century of despair. His willpower gushed forth in a constant stream , suffocating the "presence" in his own malice; his own hatred, his own ecstasy. He fully realized that the "presence" was now beyond anything ever known in the history of creation. Yet he didn't care. It was time to do or die; death or not, he would deny the "presence" its final goal.  
  
Much like it had denied him his life.  
  
It was fortunate that those people decided to attack at that exact moment. For he, and all of his efforts, were swatted aside as casually as a fly. Yet the "presence" realized that the precarious position it was now in, and thus didn't move to finish him once and for all. Instead, it turned its attention on those people.  
  
That was its other mistake.  
  
As far beyond comprehension it had transgressed, it appeared that his body was still affected by swords and axes. By spears and the destructive magic of the cosmos. Those people assaulted him with in these in abundance; while none affected him in any severity, he could feel the pain coursing through his body. All the while he'd since redoubled his assault against the "presence", and again it threw him aside as easily as ever.  
  
It could not finish them off.  
  
The battle raged on, and again and again he threw his willpower against that of the "presence". It wasn't long before all sense had completely left him; all that remained was hatred, complete and pure, for the "presence". He would redouble his assault as soon as he was thrown aside, all the while ignoring the pain his body was now experiencing. The hatred, now oozing from the "presence", only served to augment his own. Even the awesome willpower of the "presence" began to give in after awhile; ever so slightly, yet it was noticable to him. He redoubled and quadrupled his assaults, lost in a sea of hatred and a gale of distorted memories long gone.  
  
And then it was over.  
  
He was free. The "presence" had finally left him. For the first time in ages, freedom of mind had returned to him. Yet joy was still rejected, jubilation did not come. He was left with a horribly mutated body, a body that was burning in several places and bleeding in many more. The smell of smoke would not reach his senses, in fact, he found it was becoming hard to see.  
  
He was dying.  
  
The end came quick, thankfully; mercifully, it came quick. One of them leapt high into the distorted air; coming down with a brilliant sword unsheathed, plunging it into a vital area of his freakish anatomy. That in itself did not kill him; but almost instantly he felt a great heat build up in his body. He had not time to ponder whether his innards were burning, or whether he had innards at all. The heat grew in potency and power impossibly fast; then, mercifully swift and heavenly painless, it expanded to every point of his body and burst forth in a glorious explosion.  
  
Needless to say, he was ripped to shreds.  
  
And yet he was not dead. He was featureless; without form, without shape. Trapped in an equally featureless void, surrounded by his own misery. Choking on his own sorrow and being burned alive by his own hatred. He would have preferred death, but that last thought had been so painful, his soul had instantly combusted into a blazing inferno of hopelessness.  
  
Once again, he was lost to sanity.  
  
Truly, now more than ever, the name he had long ago abandoned suited him. No longer among the living and not having control of his body for a century. Having to always sit on the sidelines, watching through the window, always not strong enough to face his tormentor. He'd been in this situation before; only now, that he was finally alone, finally free, did his weakness truly come to light. Despair was his constant companion; insanity his right hand man. Death was nothing to him. As an escape it would be the greatest boon, yet could not die; would not die.  
  
He was past death.  
  
He was Exdeath.  
  
It burned. 


	3. Dead Burn

Emptiness.  
  
To be a contradiction in oneself is to have a purpose. To those gifted with the purpose comes a responsibility, a reliance to act upon it on their own accord. To those gifted with the purpose comes happiness, sadness, grief and joy. The completion of the purpose often leaves the individual with a sense of accomplishment; of jubilation. The purpose defines the individual, for it is not the individual that acts against the purpose. Should the purpose be accomplished, then the cycle shall unceasingly begin again. Like a well oiled machine, the purpose shall run endlessly; resetting and reapplying itself when necessary, always guiding the individual along their self appointed path.  
  
The dead do not have a purpose.  
  
Exdeath never imagined that death would be quite like what he found himself in. He'd long since given up on the belief of "gods" or supernatural deities; he always imagined death as a endless empty void of nothingness. In fact, he found himself midly surprised to find that his assumption was more or less accurate.  
  
The consciousness during death bothered him quite a bit, however.  
  
Sanity was an infrequent visitor. His inner demons were many and unrelenting; each time clear thought came him, grief and despair would make it a point to reclaim him as quickly as possible. Should they miss their cue, the immense, vast ocean of helplessness that surrounded and tormented him would close in, always drowning whatever hopes may have sprung forth in his soul.  
  
There was no escape.  
  
Reality, cold and ungiving, would come crashing down every time he'd set to pondering such a conquest. He'd tell himself that since he was not dead, there had to be something else he had to do in this lifetime. Then memories of the bloodshed, caused by his own hands, would pierce his soul like a wickedly righteous dagger. Perhaps he was serving some sort of sentence for his criminal acts. Indeed, his crimes against humanity were many and severe; though he himself had not committed them in any state of mind, he had been unable to prevent them from being committed.  
  
It was thoughts like these that sent him spiraling back into the depths of insanity.  
  
Time was a nonfactor, but still it eventually grew to the point where he began to hate when lucid thought returned to him. He soon started diving deep into his grief each time thought came clearly. Yet he could never completely hide himself behind his despair; a single thought, one pale glimmer of grey against the absolute black darkness of the void, had somehow anchored itself to him and refused to let go.  
  
Freedom.  
  
The good freedom of "mind" would do, when his "mind" was all he had left; that he could not fathom. He often scoffed at the irony when allowed, for his situation brought a sort of twisted amusement to him. He did not take any real enjoyment from the matter, though; rather, whenever he found himself with conscious thought, he found himself hoping that the demons of his soul would reclaim him as soon as possible. Truly, it grew to the point where he detested sanity with every fiber of his being. He prayed for the day his demons would overwhelm him; utterly and with no remorse, he would have conscious thought no more. Grief and despair burned and suffocated him to no end, but the unchanging emptiness of the void was quite simply too much for him to bear.  
  
His demons could not conquer him for good.  
  
For although the emptiness never changed, although the hopelessness ever lingered, he was always pulled from his delirium before it could permanently set in. Hope had anchored like a beacon in the middle of the endless sea of helplessness. Once again; despite his resistance and all of his efforts, he could not detach himself from the beacon. And though its glimmer was faint and barely perceptible in all of the insanity, it would not let him slide into the brink from which there was no return. He could not completely forsake hope.  
  
He grew to despise that beacon.  
  
The formless void was the perfect place to nourish and cultivate his hatred. The everpresent nothingness was the fertilizer; the glimmer of hope, the seed. If hatred alone could have delivered him from his predicament, then it would not be long before the boundaries of Limbo shatter theirselves before him. Yet hatred alone would not deliver him from his situation; that fact, in itself, served only to fuel his hate even more.  
  
His demons were still unable to overcome him.  
  
To have hope is to have a purpose. Exdeath did not have a purpose. Yet he had hope; subconscious as it was, he could not deny its presence. His body had long ago been destroyed. He was dead, forgotten; lost to the outside world. He would not die; every sane moment of his existence was spent in torment. Yet the hope persisted, only serving to fuel his hatred even further.  
  
The cycle would not end.  
  
It was during a brief struggle against sanity that the Change came. He never bothered to wonder afterwards whether it had been planned, or if he'd just happened to be sane at the time. Perhaps it was fortunate either way; nothing good could spawn from his insanity, not with all of the hatred that filled his soul. And still, the entire thing had been a risk of the highest caliber. Exdeath was filled with such hate at the time, he was nearly self destructive. Though he knew it not, it was entirely possible to self destruct his own mind and soul; thus ending his existence and denying him of the purpose that had seeked him out.  
  
He felt hot.  
  
And a sensation. One long thought gone, yet apparently buried in the same subconscious corner with his hope. It was sudden; brief in the matter of seconds, yet enough to draw a reaction from his long tormented mind.  
  
He was falling.  
  
The ungiving ground did not greet him with kindness. If his mind had not snapped out of its stupor yet, then the harsh contact with the packed earth most certainly did the job. Another sensation, thought perished long ago, rose from the depths of obscurity and assailed his senses. Pain throbbed in his left leg, upon which he had apparently landed quite akwardly. Face first on the ground he had sprawled, with the sun beating, unceasingly, on his back.  
  
He felt pain. He felt heat.  
  
The smell of dirt and grass wafted through the filters of his helmet, heavy in the fragrance of late summer. The thick aroma was too much for him to handle and he sneezed, the sound echoing hollow within the confines of his helmet. The action brought an ache to his skull; understandably, as he was no longer used to possessing sinal cavities.  
  
The sun unceasingly beat down, bathing him in such heat he'd not experienced in lifetimes. He laid there, face down, curled in the fetal position. Confused did not begin to describe the emotions running through his mind. Yet although his stay in the void had dulled his mind, it did not make him any more naive to the world. He couldn't bring himself to believe that after such torment, after such insanity, he was alive.  
  
Something was wrong.  
  
And then it hit him. He was still insane, still trapped in the formless void as a formless soul. His mind was leading him on the ultimate deception, trying to convince him that he'd somehow been resurrected. All he wished was for the torment to end, in one way or another, but it appeared that he was fated to suffer throughout all of eternity. His helplessness quickly ascended to pure hatred; the sun's gentle hand did nothing to prevent his rage from blossoming out of control. An overpowering urge to gouge his eyeballs out with his own hands came upon him. Logic had long since left him; frustration and helplessness were evident on his shaking hands as he raised them with the single intent of mauling himself beyond all recognition.  
  
He only stopped short when he recognized the gauntlets his hands bore.  
  
If this was yet another delusion, then it was the most convincing one he'd come across yet. Not only had he envisioned an environment, grassy and green; completely different than the one he knew himself to be in, but he'd also imagined himself a body. A body ruined long ago; impossible to amend by any manner of mortals. A body that had brought about the ruin of two worlds. The same body, sporting dark blue armor and a sky blue cloak, that had ripped through frail mortal kingdoms in ages past. The gauntlets that now covered his hands were stained in the blood of too many innocents to count. Impossible to amend; not possible to grieve. He could not move his gaze from the jewelled fixtures, in complete disbelief as he was. His mind had tread on forbidden territory.  
  
He was Exdeath.  
  
At least for the time being. In the first instance he could recall, the hatred did not blossom. The rage had not been planted over the indignation of the realization. No; the rage was not there, the hatred nonexistent. In their place was an emptiness, chilling in its purity. Torment was eternal and salvation was nonexistent. Even now, he realized, he had not the luxury of insanity. To bear this new agony in complete lucidity was more than he could endure. He wanted to cry.  
  
"I don't believe it..."  
  
He'd heard the footsteps quite awhile ago, yet he dismissed them as quickly as they'd been put to earth. Everything in this delusion was just that, a delusion. The unknown figment's words brought a tingle to his spine, however.  
  
He recognized the voice.  
  
A swift foot found its way into his midsection, striking him with such force only a well practiced warrior could create. Exdeath grimaced and said nothing, wishing only that the demons would return to reclaim him. Another kick and he instinctively curled up into the fetal position, wondering if constants still remaining in this lifetime. Insanity only stood on the sidelines and laughed, making no move to reclaim him as the figment lashed out again with his foot.  
  
"Get up you bastard."  
  
A hint of anger laced the figment's words, bringing his thoughts to exactly who stood over him. Yet he made no effort to discover the answer himself; confident in the fact insanity would shortly reclaim him. Insanity moved not an inch.  
  
"I didn't come here to kill you, as much as I would like to. Now pull yourself up before I pull you up myself!"  
  
The figment was definitely angry with him. Yet it was only a figment of his delusion, and nothing more. The harsh emptiness persisted, and he curled up tighter in an attempt to fill his spiritual gap. Yet it was ineffective; nothing he did would drive away the chill. Nothing he did would bring him peace of mind. He was so tired.  
  
Two arms wormed their way under his shoulders.  
  
He didn't have even the energy to fight. A single heave and he was lifted from the ground. The figment was quite strong, for he was held in the air for several seconds before being roughly set back on his own two feet. Instantly his knees wobbled. He would have fallen if the figment hadn't grabbed him; balancing him and setting him upright. His knees wobbled again.  
  
"Goddamn it, can't you remember how to walk?"  
  
He made no pretensions. Whatever strength of will had survived his ordeal with the "presence" had been drained from him in the void. He was weak, so very weak. Perhaps the weakest being to ever exist. Memories, distorted and truncated, came to him in any case. Before long he was standing of his own accord, never once imagining that he'd have need to brace any "legs" ever again.  
  
"Just like a baby. I swear. Limbo will do that to you, I hear. Open your damn eyes."  
  
The sun bathed him in glorious heat as he strained to open his eyelids. The emptiness never ceased to gnaw at the pit of his soul; although the sunlight did nothing to remedy it, its blessed heat soothed him quite a bit. He may be experiencing his cruelest delusion of them all, but he found himself no longer caring. The heat of the sun was an infinte improvement over the unrelenting emptiness of the void. His eyelids opened; slowly and with great strain, and for the first time in ages he found himself flooded with images.  
  
He'd long since forgotten how truly glorious color was.  
  
For all of its warmth and comfort, the sun proved to be too much of a strain on his eyes. It took quite awhile before his vision reached levels comparable to his days among the living. The figment only stood there all the while, muttering beneath its breath about something or another. Exdeath cared not at all. The sun was soothing some of the constant emptiness, and that was what he was concerned with.  
  
Until his vision returned.  
  
"This..... this is not real....."  
  
He hadn't even thought about his voice. The words just came out randomly, laced with the same icy flatness that gnawed at the pit of his soul. Perhaps it was shock at the identity of the figment, or shock that he could finally see in the world of the living. In any case, his mind had to have been working several steps slower than his mouth. He surprised himself with those words.  
  
Exdeath was staring into the face of Galuf.  
  
"Of course it isn't. I'm dead. You're dead. This forest was burned to the ground long ago. By you yourself, if I have to remind you 'bout that."  
  
Exdeath was silent. He remembered killing the old man in front of him. The "presence" had been incensed beyong all rationality, overconfident in the frailty of a single mortal. Despite all of Exdeath's efforts, he hadn't been able to prevent the self destruction of the man. Hatred had oozed from Galuf, like blood from an open wound, when they'd engaged battle. The old man's hatred had been great, but the "presence's", as always, had been greater.  
  
The best Galuf had accomplished was to cause him to retreat.  
  
Incensed about his defiance, the "presence" didn't give two thoughts to setting the forest ablaze. The entire forest, which had once been a monument to prosperity and steadfastness, quickly became a mounument to death and despair. Although he himself had sensed nothing, apparently the "presence" had picked up on the passing of Galuf from the world of the living. That would have explained its half-satisfaction that on day, Exdeath decided.  
  
And now the man, whose life he has ended, was staring him in the face.  
  
He was not naked; putting to rest any assumptions of naked little angels flying around and stinging people with heart shaped arrows. Galuf was dressed as he was on the day he died; bright green robe, brown pants, purple undershirt set against the a pink belt. Galuf was a bit shorter than him but not by much; Exdeath surmised him to be around six foot four or six foot five. Unkempt brown hair hung loosely about his shoulders, in stark contrast to his neatly kept goatee.  
  
Exdeath didn't know what to say.  
  
Although Galuf was old, he remained in top physical condition. He'd been strong during his days among the living; Exdeath had no wish to see how death had affected his strength.  
  
So he turned and walked away.  
  
A rough hand was placed on his shoulder, no sooner had he taken six steps. Without warning he was pulled around, ending up face to face with Galuf. Yet he apparently was not close enough, for the old man clenched the nape of his cloak and pulled him closer in a single tug. Exdeath was now uncomfortably close to Galuf; nearly nose to nose, he could see the hatred visible in the eyes of the old man. When he spoke, it was soft and through clenched teeth; almost a whisper, uncalled for in the lifeless, unreal forest.  
  
"You can't run, Exdeath."  
  
Spittle flew from his mouth, only to ding ineffectively against Exdeath's dark blue helmet. Galuf suddenly extended his arm, releasing his grip on the cloak and sending Exdeath staggering backwards. Balance and luck were against the Dark Mage, for the tree root he backed into was enough to send him sprawling to the mossy forest floor.  
  
Exdeath made no move to pick himself up as Galuf approached.  
  
"What..... do you want....."  
  
Malice was nowhere to be found in his words. He sounded more tired than angry; most uncharacteristic of the Exdeath he remembered. Galuf stopped short, confused by the lack of resistence. Presently, finding it all ridiculous, he himself sat down and burst out in twisted laughter.  
  
"Dahaha! What do I want? What do -I- want!? It certainly can't be important enough to warrant this pseudoreality, tailored just for you, can it!?"  
  
Exdeath was silent.  
  
"You're wasting time."  
  
Exdeath pondered the man's words. He was being vague, intentionally; whether it was the purpose or not, the vagueness did not anger him. He was so tired, so drained, to even think about caring. He wanted nothing more to be alone, to suffer in solitude, and it was obvious he wasn't going to get his wish.  
  
He learned to accept the burning.  
  
"Explain yourself."  
  
A quizzical expression crossed Galuf's face as he sat there, pondering how to answer the question. It didn't take long for the old man to settle on an answer, although Exdeath knew no answer was coming the moment Galuf's mouth opened.  
  
"No, no, no. First thing's first. You haven't been the same since you were destroyed. Mind telling me, since the others were wondering, why that is?"  
  
The last thing Exdeath needed was pity. He had no reason not to be frank; should the old man not believe him, that wasn't his fault. He couldn't understand why he asked in the first place.  
  
"I..... was not myself."  
  
An interested look crossed the old man's face as he motioned for Exdeath to continue.  
  
"It..... I..... was not in control of my body..... something else was....."  
  
Galuf silently processed those words. Obviously, it was an easy claim for anybody to make. But the level of aggression that oozed from Exdeath had changed dramatically since his destruction. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps that was what Exdeath had to do.  
  
It would explain why his soul hadn't joined the others in death.  
  
"So you're saying... all those years, you were possessed?"  
  
Exdeath didn't answer immediately. The conversation had reminded him of something he'd since forgotten. Something noted before he'd learned the truth about death and the torment that comes with it.  
  
"It's not dead..... it is still out there....."  
  
Galuf was silent. He'd already done his part. He wanted nothing more than the eternal slumber that comes at the end of the great battle. Perhaps Exdeath didn't need as much explaining as he'd previously thought.  
  
"You're wasting time."  
  
And Exdeath understood. If he had one desire that could rise above the insanity; more than anything else, he wished for the "presence" to join him in shapeless torment. Yet there were still boundaries, still limitations that confined him beyond the reach of mortal men.  
  
"No escape. No hope."  
  
Galuf stood up, stretching his legs and wiping the dust from his pants. He threw a glance over to Exdeath, still seated upon the mossy forest floor. He knew that Exdeath was drowning in helplessness; so was he, as they all did when the time for departure came. He gave a thought to cheering him up and discarded it just as quickly. What was not a cheery person in life would not be a cheery person in death.  
  
"As long as one is fit to command, escape is always feasible."  
  
With that, Galuf set off towards the edge of the forest. He'd just about crossed the vine strewn threshold when a thought came to him, dear and close to his heart. Though he loathed the prospect of it, he realized that the Dark Mage might very well be able to pull it off. Swinging about, he realized that Exdeath was still seated upon the mossy floor, exactly where he'd left him. Cupping his hands, he brought them to his mouth and sent the call echoing throughout the forest.  
  
"Exdeath! If you see my grandaughter Cara, you be sure to tell her grandpa still loves her!"  
  
Not bothering to check to see if the Dark Mage understood, the old man swung abruptly about and returned to his death. Only moments later, the forest began to shift and turn. Rips and tears appeared in the fabric of the unreality; the forest was disintegrating before Exdeath's very eyes..  
  
And then he was back in the void.  
  
The demons came for him. 


	4. Supressed Burn

Limitless.  
  
If there was one word that described the void, it would have to be persistent. More specifically, the icy emptiness was persistent. All about him it persisted, refusing to let up one single inch. To do otherwise was not within the void's capabilities. It was if it knew only smothering, icy oppression; leniency was quite apparently out of the question.  
  
Exdeath wished he'd never been born.  
  
The emptiness was like a rule; a singular constant that must never be broken. The feeling had grown so familiar that life with shape and form was merely garbled images, fragmented memories long since out of his reach. Indeed, Exdeath was left to his own thoughts more often than not. Since his experience with the pseudoreality, insanity was becoming harder and harder to hide behind. Slowly but surely, and much to his disgust, the insanity was becoming less frequent. Even his anger and hatred, which had become like an appendage to him, was slowly slipping away; bit by bit, only to dissolve into nothingness.  
  
He was too drained.  
  
If it was his fate to forever suffer in solitude, then so be it. He'd long since given up hope of escape. Up until the point where he had lost the ability to hate, he'd hated the notion of freedom with every ounce of his being. Now, he only scoffed at the notion. The outside world, material plane; whatever you want to call it, it existed only to balance the sheer emptiness of reality.  
  
He was fairly sure that the pseudoreality had been nothing more than a grand delusion.  
  
Yet, as absurd as it was, the notion was firmly entrenched in his mind. He knew it was beyond possibility, how futile it was; yet his thoughts always returned to it. To the notion of revenge.  
  
To the notion of justice.  
  
"Justice..... exists only in the mind of the individual....."  
  
The void didn't present him with many options in which to relieve his boredom. Or, rather, his suffering. Which was the only reason he let himself dwell on such futile matters. If only it were possible to track the "presence" down, make it account for its actions. Oh yes, it was alive. He knew it was out there, furthering its own nefarious means. As frail as his sanity was, it was impossible not to know. He would just know if the "presence" was truly dead.  
  
The purpose would not be egging him on if that was the case.  
  
Time passed, as it always does. Though time does not pass within the void, it can do nothing to prevent the passage of time on the material plane. The question presented itself. Should time pass for other populants of the universe, what should prevent it passing for Exdeath.  
  
".....That's right..... I'm dead."  
  
Though the void disdained reminisence and distorted memories to its fullest, he often pondered upon his grandest delusion. To breathe as a mortal, think as a mortal; a joy beyond comparison after such imprisonment. Then, moments later, to realize it was a lie; unreal, unexisting as ever before.  
  
The cruelty was limitless.  
  
His hatred, which had only grown for who knows how long, was nothing in comparison to that simple fact. Harsh and ungiving, it struck home like a bolt to the heart. His emotions had played him like a fiddle, guided him along like a puppet. His hatred was nothing to the void; he himself was nothing to the void. Time after time again the situation would remain the same; drowning in a sea of emptiness, alone and forgotten. His demons could only shelter him for so long before the reality of the situation made itself all too clear.  
  
He was not prepared to face an eternity of nothingness.  
  
His hatred was a nonfactor; neither that, nor any depths on insanity would deliver him from the clutches of Limbo. Time would not end; rather, it would keep progressing. He would suffer throughout the ages, experiencing a lifetime of agony for every individual slaughtered by the will of the "presence". His torment would come in many different forms; some striking closer to home than others, all making their point very clearly felt.  
  
He was nothing.  
  
That was not right. He had not always been nothing. Though his memory was a joke and he had no proof, he was willing to stake whatever life he had left on it.  
  
He had not always been nothing.  
  
As if he didn't already feel insignificant enough. Yet, the situation; severe as it was, seemed rather absurd when looked at in this perspective. Just because he died, just because he did everything in his power to help those people kill him, he was sentenced to an eternity of insane despair. For his inability to combat the presence, he was reduced to nothingness; lower than the lowest slug to ever exist.  
  
What was the point?  
  
What would imprisoning him in the formless void accomplish? Was it supposed to make him repent, feel "sorry" for his actions? He could only wonder how he was supposed to feel "sorry" when he could remember taking no enjoyment from all the bloodshed at his hands. Indeed, his entire focus had been on the presence invading his body; all outside influences had been completely ignored.  
  
Until he realized the outside influences were his only hope of salvation.  
  
Everywhere about him was a vast expanse of nothingness. Perhaps endless, perhaps limitless. He'd grown used to its suffocating presence during his stay in the void. Indeed; he had grown used to what he could not possibly conceive during his living days. It had always taunted him, mocked him before bearing down and consuming him with unbelievably savage fury. Such a fury that made his demons a welcome relief; he could not remember ever contesting the emptiness.  
  
Was it fear?  
  
Did he fear the nothingness? Insanity was much more desirable compared to the harsh reality of the situation. If that constituted fear, he had to admit he was guilty as charged. Yet he also had to admit another thing. He needed solid answers, reasons, explanations to his current situation.  
  
None were given.  
  
Yet then another thought entered his shredded and diseased mind. Perhaps the emptiness surrounding him, engulfing him, had once been lost souls such as himself. Perhaps they had despaired for so long that they'd become one with the void, forever lost to time. Perhaps that was to be his fate. Perhaps that was the purpose of the void.  
  
To reduce him to nothingness.  
  
And what a cruel and unrelenting purpose that would be. If that was to be his fate, after suffering in solitude for so long, then he should have never been given life. His entire existence was meaningless, futile; built around his weakness, based upon his inability to combat the "presence".  
  
And whose opinion was that?  
  
Was that his own opinion, stemming from the depths of his despair? Did his fear of the absolute emptiness of the place he now found himself in, truly hold such a sway over his thoughts? Why was he having such difficulty with taking responsibility for his thoughts? Or could they, in reality, be not truly his but those of another.  
  
Could that be the opinion of the void?  
  
Exdeath knew that he was not completely sane. Exdeath also knew that he was dead and forgotten to the world. Everything he knew was wrong, and in that he was not completely sure. Yet, he could not allow himself to stand idly by and be consumed by the void, at least not while the "presence" still existed.  
  
Could it be that hope was resurfacing?  
  
No, not hope. He was merely stating the obvious, the harsh reality of what must be done. Doing otherwise, letting the matter slide had not crossed his god forsaken mind. He could not allow his existence to end before finding the truth out about the "presence".  
  
He could not bow to anybody's whims but his own.  
  
Yet there was still the matter of his entrapment at hand. Tombed beneath layers upon layers of nothingness, removed from the awareness of all to ever exist. Alone and helpless as ever, powerless to make a dent against the void.  
  
Why was he even giving the void any consideration?  
  
What was he still doing here, lost and confused; as if he was caught up among the waves of a great sea of hopelessness? How could it be that he'd not penetrated this grand illusion, this veil of misery as of yet?  
  
There is no escape.  
  
Who is to say there's no escape?  
  
The "presence" had escaped before. Exdeath was most certain that memory was still accurate. Yet the details of those days would not come to him. The specifics of the matter were naught but a gaping chasm in his memories. Which was most unnatural, considering the "presence" had been using his body during the entire ordeal.  
  
He had no alternative. It had come time to face his demons.  
  
It was with great uneasiness and trepidaton that Exdeath finally settled down into his thoughts. He knew that he was only asking for more torment, yet he could figure no other alternative. He had to reclaim the memories that were once his; there was just no other way.  
  
As expected, despair and hopelessness were the first to greet him.  
  
Perhaps the greatest struggle he had ever fought was waged in his mind as he tried to come to terms with his grief. It soon grew apparent that his sanity was slipping away the deeper he tunneled through his diseased mind. Yet as hopeless as the situation seemed to be, a single part of his mind refused to give in to the demons. That part of his mind continued to fight, continued to tunnel deeper and deeper through his decaying memories. His sins surrounded him but he cared not; the last part of his mind left to him did not know the meaning of quit.  
  
His anger was once again guiding him.  
  
And suddenly there were images of a room, constructed at the height of technology. Great iron pipes hung overhead, and he knew that they carried the lifeblood of this facility within their echoing crevasses. The room was hot; he knew that the temperature had to be unbearable to most people. Yet his uniform blocked out most of the heat, although he found himself growing disgusted at the weight of his oversized helmet.  
  
His uniform?  
  
He slowly made his way to the center of the room, to where a pedestal stood. Four people were gathered around the dais on which the pedestal was placed; he thought nothing of the scumbags as he brushed them by and struggled up the steps. He realized his control of the mortal was slipping, as he was unaccustomed to such humid climates. Yet there was nothing to worry about, for he would have shattered this lock and moved on to a new vessel long before his grip on this body would ever falter.  
  
Those four people had no clue what was going on.  
  
The dais was at last ascended and the crystal was propped up before him. Within its pristine depths was a power that was beyond any of the miserable scumbags existing on this planet. Yet it was nothing to himself; it was a wonder that these fragile baubles were able to keep him imprisoned in Limbo. In any case, he knew what he had to do. So without another thought he straightened up before the fire crystal. All the while he'd been gathering the necessary correlation of energy in his gauntleted hand needed to counteract the energy that the crystal itself was emitting.  
  
As thus, he raised his arm; the crystal was unable to offer any resistance when he brought it back down again.  
  
There was a brilliant explosion as the planet's primary power source was snuffed out like a candle. Already the facility was feeling the repercussions; great, steaming fissures burst forth as the ground buckled under the sudden increase in pressure. The ceiling groaned in response; several pipes were unhinged by the sudden shift and teetered dangerously overhead. It didn't take long before they came loose altogether and crashed to the floor with a resounding clang. Knowing that the facility had gone critical, he turned around in means to escape, only to see that those people were already moving against him. He had to admit, they weren't as stupid as they looked. Several more pipes came unhinged from the ceiling and crashed to the floor in a cascade of iron and steel; he caught a humanoid shape descending in the midst of the wreckage. More gouts of steam hissed forth from the fissures, filling the room to the brim with the sizzling gas as the scumbags sprang upon him. One of the scumbags, barely visible in the acrid haze, flung forward through the smoke; his sword aiming to pierce the vessel's chest. And then.....  
  
There is no escape.  
  
To go against omnipotence is futile.  
  
We will become one for all eternity.  
  
Exdeath was understandably disoriented. Already the images were fleeting. He almost had the answer, he was willing to stake his sanity on that. Yet, almost wasn't good enough. Almost did nothing more than build the rage that had been idle for so long.  
  
He could not let his anger consume him to the point his original goal was lost from sight.  
  
His return trip into his consciousness was an easier one, as he brought along one thing that had before been absent. Hope was weak and hope was faint, but it was his only ally against his numerous demons. He wasted no time in plunging straight to the coreof his memories; this time, hopelessness and despair were a bit hesitant to approach him. Yet his sins still remained, and they were more than enough to keep him preoccupied.  
  
Ten thousand voices... calling in unison for your soul...  
  
In time, they will have it.  
  
What do you think to accomplish?  
  
A break in the waves. A fortress floating far above the earth.  
  
You have no reason to persist.  
  
Ruins of a civilization long past. Ancient artifacts, once dormant and useless, now reawakening; now rising above their decided fate.  
  
You are a fool.  
  
And there he was, walking the abandoned halls of the Lonka ruins. The most advanced civilization to ever grace this planet, perhaps even comparable to his other planet. It almost shamed him to think the place would be caught up in the grand sacrifice, and; like everything else on this miserable world, be destroyed.  
  
He could hardly wait.  
  
The vessel this time was the one he had been saving the longest. It had wandered into a trap he had set when he was doing away with the first lock, for even then he knew that he would need many vessels to complete his objective. It had been stored in an anti-time bubble for awhile, before being released and directed to the place he sensed the earth crystal's energies were coming from. It had been a good little mindless servant; always obedient, always fully focused and never diverted from its task. As thus, when he had finished with the fire crystal, all he had to do was transfer his consciousness into the waiting vessel. Just like that, he was practically at the earth lock.  
  
He'd been wandering the Lonka ruins ever since.  
  
It took him far too long to realize that the facility had to be airborne before its entire expanse could be accessed. By that time, the scumbags that had been trailing him had finally caught up. He'd been outside of the ruins, looking for any hidden passages to the center of the facility when they showed up. He continued on his inspection, leading them around the ruins, but in time he soon grew weary of their presence.  
  
Which was why when they finally contronted him, he dropped the floor out from under them.  
  
So he went and activated the launch sequence, as he had finally realized his folly. As he was now allowed full access of the facility, he'd spent his time wandering the halls; always in search of the final lock keeping his body captive.  
  
And it had come to this.  
  
The ancient people that had once manned this facility had obviously been tinkering with genetic engineering. For the creature that was before him was unlike any other lifeform native to this miserable planet. It would not allow him to pass, not give him access to the inner sanctum of the facility. Force wasn't working, either; the creature seemed to absorb everything he threw against it in moderation. He was quite open to using his full power against it, except his full power would quite obviously rip the Lonka ruins apart from the inside.  
  
So he was at a loss of what to do until they showed up.  
  
He'd finally settled on transporting the creature out of his path. Yet the creature was now enraged, and his pitiful mortal vessel was not able to bring the fifth dimension down upon it quickly enough. So he had no choice but to go on the offensive, to keep it away with repeated attacks while he prepared the spell to banish the creature to oblivion or Worus or wherever.  
  
That was when they showed up.  
  
They jumped into the battle without a second thought, like the mindless little drones that they were. It had dawned on him by now that one or more of the scumbags held an emotional attachment to the vessel. Yet it mattered not as everything would go to ruin in the end; his objective precluded ruin, but ruination would follow his objective anyways.  
  
The scumbags managed to bring the creature to ruin themselves.  
  
He had to give them credit. They were good, if not scumbags. Yet there were four of them, and only one of the creature.Yet, still, none of this mattered. So without another word he hurried into the next room, hoping that the scumbags would get it through their heads not to follow him.  
  
They followed him.  
  
The final lock rested on a pedestal situated on a dais at the far end of the room. Exactly like all of the others; he was fairly sure that whatever scumbag race that set this contraption up were possessing a single track mind. In any case, he was growing weary of this world. His objective had been delayed for far too long; such setbacks would never be set in his path again. The energy correlation flowed seemlessly through his body and up his arm; he wasted no time in putting it to good use. A single blow and the crystal shattered in a brilliant display of prismatic colors, a display not noticed as his mind was on other matters.  
  
The seal was gone.  
  
The scumbags opened their mouths but no words came out. At least, any words that reached his ears. He was in ecstasy; he would no longer be denied. The Truth would at last be revealed; his purpose would then finally be made clear. The scumbags moved towards him and he scoffed; he was beyond the reach of mortal man or material blade. In any case, he planned to finally show these scumbags his true power. They paid to see the show, so he was going to give the performance of his lifetime. As thus, he let loose his hold on the vessel; his consciousness transferred flawlessly back to his own body.....  
  
Vessels.  
  
The solution.  
  
To invade another's mind. To take control of their body. To be as if that vessel was your own.  
  
The "presence" had been using him as a vessel all the time.  
  
The "presence" considered his body to be its own.  
  
He would not stoop to the "presence's" level of depravity.  
  
But he had an idea.  
  
It suddenly dawned upon him that his thoughts were brought about by a singular mind. He was alone, truly alone; something that had never before happened in Limbo. The burning had subsided. The void no longer whispered to him. The emptiness no longer taunted him. His demons were silent, under control.  
  
He may be just a soul, but he was no longer lost.  
  
Why do you do this?  
  
He had no idea where to begin. He had no idea how the "presence" had done it. Yet, still, he had all the time in the world to figure it out.  
  
To reject me is to be thought unthinkable.  
  
Exdeath was silent.  
  
Yet you have deluded yourself into thinking you have an actual chance of meeting your Purpose.  
  
".....it is not delusion....."  
  
You are the greatest fool to ever have the misfortune to stumble upon here.  
  
Exdeath had finally had enough.  
  
"Just..... remember this..... I was your master in my mortal life..... I am your master still....."  
  
The black wind was silent.  
  
Then you must be one with the universe. You must be one with Enuo. Set yourself upon a cosmic current and return to the mortal realm. It will be shortly seen whether your words ring with Truth or futility.  
  
The black wind spoke no more.  
  
It was a different void that Exdeath found himself in. The emptiness no longer frightened him. Rather, it was almost comforting. Exdeath himself was empty; too empty, too drained. Yet the Purpose was with him, and he was fueled by the revenge that kept watch over his many various demons. The silence was a welcome change from the everpresent, unceasing taunting and torment of the void which he had endured for so long. Yet no longer; no longer would the situation be the same, no longer would he be surrounded on all sides by the ungiving emptiness. Indeed, his situation would shortly change, but even in that Exdeath would not allow himself any jubilation.  
  
Exdeath just wanted to be free of the void once and for all.  
  
To once be thought insurmountable; to once be thought immeasurable, to stretch out into eternity. To show not the slightest chance of escape, to offer no hope. That was the void. That was the nothingness that made up the void. That was the emptiness that pervaded the nothingness. And the emptiness suddenly parted before him, opening up to a universe once thought forever lost to his diseased mind. The entire expanse of infinity stretched before him. Stars were born and planets crumbled to dust before his very eyes; the feeling of creation, of life itself was beginning to reawaken from the infathomable recesses which it had been banished. The universe was alive, completely the opposite to the void in which he had been imprisoned in for so long, and it was a sight too glorious to behold in Exdeath's eyes. He very nearly turned back to fling himself into the depths of Limbo, and would most certainly have been consumed by the void had he done so. Yet revenge fueled his resolve; the Purpose reassured him that he had been accepted by Enuo. He felt at ease for the first time in ages by that strange reassurance. So much, to the point that he didn't mind floating aimlessly among the cosmos until an astral current came along and swept him up in its nebulous recesses. Indeed, he was at ease during the entire journey back down to the planet from which he had been spawned.  
  
Revelation is limitless. 


End file.
